


How to Care for Your Human Bard

by Janekfan



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Caretaking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fever, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Infection, Jaskier is human? Who'd have thought!, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prompt Fic, sick
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-07
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:01:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26867821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janekfan/pseuds/Janekfan
Summary: Prompt: You said once that Geralt forgetting Jaskier’s human-ness is your jam, so: five (or however many) times Geralt completely overestimated his human companion’s physical tolerance/abilities, plus one time that he underestimated what Jaskier was capable of when called on. As gen or shippy as you like, but either way I’d like to politely request you go heavy on the kindness, affection, and comfort if you choose to fill it.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 38
Kudos: 375





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fills 2 prompts! But I will continue adding on to this one to fulfill the second prompt more thoroughly :D
> 
> prompt: Jaskier suffers a throat infection resulting in not being able to talk. Geralt thinks it's a blessing. Then Jaskier develops sepsis

_Oh, he’s having a right time with this._ Jaskier sipped his tea, hot as his sore throat could manage and grimaced at the sharp sting. _He thinks I can’t see his smug grin._ Last night, Jaskier had gone to sleep after a rough performance with an aching behind his tongue and woken to full fledged agony, and no he wasn’t being dramatic, it _hurt_ , and unable to speak. After finishing his gruff assessment of him, Geralt had prescribed hot tea, plenty of water, and even so magnanimously agreed to stay one more day at the inn and for that, the bard was grateful. The thought of sleeping out in the rough feeling this dreadful inspired many a woeful ballad. If only he could sing them. But his voice was quite and thoroughly gone. Something Geralt found amusing to say the least. 

“What a pleasant day this is proving to be, wouldn’t you say, bard?” Jaskier glowered, setting the cup aside and burrowing deeper into the inadequate bedclothes. He was positively freezing, clenching his jaw to avoid chattering his teeth, because while Geralt seemed to be in relative good humor, he could just as easily leave without him. “Ah, I forgot, you can’t.” Petulant, Jaskier stuck out his tongue and twisted up his face, turning away in the bed to curl up in his misery. He’d sleep this off. A good, restful day would clear whatever this was right up. 

And of course, with his terrible luck, it didn’t and he woke in the early evening so incredibly thirsty, cursing himself for sleeping throughout the entire day. He downed the cold tea, whimpering and holding his neck at the burn of it, and noticed that Geralt was gone. The flash of fear at being abandoned was tempered by seeing armor and packs by the door, but Jaskier felt very suddenly alone. He longed for something warm to sip but after barely making it to the rough hewn pitcher to pour himself the last bit of water, he decided against a trip down the stairs. He would fall and make an embarrassment of himself and that wouldn’t do. Jaskier was exhausted and aching, a headache making itself at home behind his eyes and the throbbing, pulsing agony in his throat made tears spring to his eyes. Sleep. Sleep would make it all go away, at least for a little while, and he staggered back into bed to will himself to sleep. At least when Geralt came back he’d be warm. 

The next morning dawned cheery and bright, the wretch, and Jaskier woke perhaps even worse off than yesterday. But he was met by a cup of medicated tea if the smell was anything to go by, being thrust into his face and Geralt saying he’d be waiting with Roach, but not without one more jab about his lost vocal talents. It was bringing him no end of amusement.

“Take your time.” Ah, that was nice of him and by the looks of things, Jaskier would need a fair bit of it. The weakness in his legs didn’t bode well for a day of travel. He was about to collapse and the day hadn’t even truly started. But he forced himself up, reeling as the room spun sideways, and very carefully limped down the stairs. He offered up a wan smile, trembling under all his layers. 

Geralt looked furious.

He’d taken forever, he knew, but he really was trying his best, and as the sun rose high and the chills became worse, Jaskier fell behind. He could hear Roach, Geralt was traveling at a much slower pace than he normally would, and Jaskier would be grateful if he wasn’t focused so hard on the weight of his lute pulling him toward the forest floor. Everything hurt and the tears springing to his eyes almost had time to fall before he remembered himself. Geralt wasn’t a fan of his over emotional displays and without words he wasn’t able to express just how poorly he really was. No cure but to walk on. Stumble on. His weaving steps slowed him further, enough that Roach had been turned back around. 

“G--” Like swallowing a blade, and the syllables died on his lips. Oh goddess. He was going to be ill and was, thankfully not all over Roach’s hooves, and the fire of it drove him to hands and knees. 

“Jaskier?” The thump of heavy boots hitting the ground was all the warning he got before a rough, blessedly cool palm pressed itself over his forehead. “Alright.” Jaskier could have sobbed as Geralt grabbed his bicep and dragged him, supported him, a little ways down the path. There was enough space here to set up a small camp and Geralt threw down his bedroll, dropping Jaskier on top of it and going about the motions that suggested they’d stay for at least a little while. The bard held his breath, tried to inhale, exhale in a way that didn’t make everything hurt worse and had almost dropped off to sleep when more tea was thrust under his nose. Willow bark and something else. And even if his stomach did feel up to it, the promise of even a modicum of relief was a heady thing, and Jaskier downed the cup even though it was too hot, falling back and curling into the rough wool.

Late afternoon sun lancing across his face woke him up and Jaskier was not well pleased at how sick he still felt. It was unlike him to be laid low like this. He shifted his head, drawing a shaky half breath, and found Geralt tending to the fire. He was so thirsty with no way to tell him and no way to get up. He hadn’t been drinking enough and tried to gesture, nimble fingers uncoordinated and frightened because of it.

“Go back to sleep, Jaskier.” With no other recourse, he did as he was told. 

This time, Geralt’s hand on his cheek pulled him up out of the dark place he’d gone. The witcher tutted, levering him up and holding more tea to his lips, only this time Jaskier could barely swallow, the pain was so great, and rather than waiting on him to finish, he pressed the cup into his quaking hands. Jaskier wasn’t sure he could even lift it. So he didn’t. Just watched blearily as Geralt broke camp, tied his lute to the saddle and that was good. Except there was no way he’d be able to stand, he could tell, and the thought prompted the tears to slip silently down his face and off his chin. He was going to be left here to die. Because he was human and weak and useless. Geralt could sell off his instrument for a good price, make up for the time Jaskier wasted slowing him down. The tea dropped from his fingers and he hid his face behind his hands. Geralt didn’t like it when he was emotional. Better to hide it. Better not to see him walk away from him. At least then he could pretend that he hadn’t left him. 

“Jaskier?” He risked a glance and wished he hadn’t. Disappointment and frustration. With him. Always with him. He hadn’t meant to get sick. He hadn’t meant to. “You’ll have to hold on.” Hold on? To what? And the answer came moments later when he was hoisted onto Roach’s back like he weighed nothing at all and Geralt mounted in front of him. “Hold on.” Tentative, confused, Jaskier threaded his arms around the witcher’s waist, hugging him for lack of a better term and burying his cheek into a warm shoulder. Hold on. Easy enough. Even he could do that, right?

Apparently not, and Geralt’s gruff demands for him to hold on and stay awake and don’t fall became increasingly intrusive. Jaskier didn’t want to do those things. He wanted to stop moving and sleep, he didn’t even care anymore about how mad his failures were making Geralt. The alternating stripes of trees and beams of sun passed by too quickly, dizzying him and it seemed like everywhere he looked there was more of it and he couldn’t keep up. The speed was too great, he was being shaken from his precarious perch and his arms were so numb he couldn’t feel them where they’d let go of Geralt. 

An attenuated moment passed where Jaskier was completely airbourne. He’d fallen from horses before. He knew how to fall. But he couldn’t get anything to work with him, all deadweight and drained. When he hit the ground, the hard impact wasn’t even bad enough to distract from the stoked embers burning up in his throat and he laid there, listening to Roach’s nickering and uneven gait as she turned around. He was cold. He was hot. He was nothing at all and Geralt’s shout of surprise sounded like it had come to him from miles away underwater. Jaskier knew he was being touched, knew he was being lifted, even knew he was being yelled at, but it seemed like it was all happening to someone else. Someone far away from all this. He’d tried. He had. But like always, it hadn’t been good enough.

“Jaskier!” Growling, loud and rough, and he couldn’t open his eyes long enough to see the rage painted there. The light was too bright, blinding and blistering, adding to the fire and the heat and Jaskier wasn’t able to stay conscious even through the witcher’s shouting. 

An indeterminate stretch of time passed and Jaskier wouldn’t be able to tell anyone all of what occurred within. It was a haze of hurting and being touched by unfamiliar hands. Maneuvered whether he wanted it to happen or not. Horrible tinctures poured down his throat that made him shed silent tears because he was nothing without his voice and no one would listen to what his body was trying to say. He was helpless, frightened, confused. Glimpses of familiar white hair caused him to weep because he was sorry, so, so sorry that he’d done this, even if he wasn’t completely sure what ‘this’ was. Damp clothes soothed some of the blistering and there were moments in between the suffering where he was sure he’d never again open his eyes. 

But he did. 

And he felt dreadful. So sick. Still pained and barely able to lift a finger. Gently, as though he might break, a cool flannel swept over his hot face, down his cheek and the warm compress over his throat was adjusted, wafting the strong scent of garlic into the air. He must have made a face because a familiar chuckle rang out somewhere to the left of him. 

“Jaskier?” Soft and kind and he did Geralt the courtesy of tipping his face toward him but didn’t remember much after that.

“You should’ve told me.” Jaskier glared weakly, pained, wrung out and still so, so tired, and Geralt had the sense to look shamed. After a strict regimen of teas, potions, and elixirs from the village healer, Jaskier appeared to be on the mend, albeit slowly. The witcher explained, for what was probably the seventh time seeing as he couldn’t hold a thought in his head for longer than a moment when he first began to wake, that he’d succumbed to a blood infection. “I should have noticed sooner." He fussed, tucking the blankets closer around him, smoothing them out and brushing back his sweat-soaked fringe. "Shouldn’t have pushed you so hard.” With an obscene amount of effort, Jaskier patted Geralt’s hand where it now rested on the sheets beside him, letting it linger there, absorbing the warmth. 

All forgiven. 

Or it would be after a few more days of attentive doting.


	2. Chapter 2

Blistering. 

The word came to mind as Geralt looked back at his traveling companion, currently swiping a hand across his sweaty forehead. 

"Geralt," Jasker whined. "How much longer until we can--oh!! Oh, Geralt! Please? Can we?" Sun sparkling off the surface of one of the river's many oxbows had caught the bard's glittering eye and he was halfway to it before he thought to look back. "I mean, safe right? No horrid beasts lurking about?"

"No." 

"That settles it!" And he stripped down to his braies, launching himself into the current and moaning around a mouthful of water. "Geralt, _Geralt_ you have to."

Uncharacteristically taken, the Witcher joined him in the stream, admitted to himself and never out loud that this, in fact, was genius. They splashed, wrestled, floated for the afternoon and though half a day was lost they exited refreshed and cool. Geralt studied Jaskier's back as he gathered up his clothes, taking note of the ranginess in his muscle, how his youthful face was melting into maturity. 

"I'm _starving!_ " He deposited his belongings near where they'd marked out camp. "Please tell me there are fish on the lines?"

Cleaned, seasoned (Jaskier insisted they not ruin a perfect day with bland fish), and roasted over the open flames, the meal was delicious and Geralt watched the bard lick the remaining salt and fat from his fingertips before laying out on his bed roll with an exaggerated sigh, falling asleep spread eagled in the waning afternoon sun. 

Days passed by, contracts were taken, coin collected, Jaskier even performed along the way, adding to their combined provisions and proving his worth and talent. Geralt was more than surprised that Jaskier was able to keep pace and then not surprised at all when he began to slow. The Path was hard for Witchers, let alone a human, but the bard could break away at any time and Geralt reminded him of that the next time they found a room. 

“I’ll walk faster.”

“That’s, Jaskier that isn’t what this is about.” He looked drawn, tired, but Geralt couldn’t spare much more time. 

“No, it’s. I can be better.” 

“If you aren’t well--”

“I am!” He decided to drop it. If Jaskier wanted to push his limits, Geralt would let him. 

Sure enough, Jaskier began lagging behind and despite himself Geralt worried at the sound of his steps, weaving and unsteady, toes scuffing the dirt and stumbling over stones. More than once the bard complained of dizziness, headaches, holding his head for moments at a time and breathing deep and even in an attempt to stave it off. 

"Jus'...a rest?" He muttered, catching up when Geralt decided to wait. "I. I'm…" Blue eyes rolled back under fluttering lashes as he began sinking to the ground, knees buckling, feet turning inwards, as he fainted dead away, and the Witcher caught him up, removing a glove with his teeth to press his bare palm to Jaskier's clammy forehead. No fever, _too_ cool if anything. There were no wounds, no scent of illness or magic or poison, and nonetheless, here they were. Dazed, slow, Geralt watched him come around, breath hitching when it seemed he couldn't remember what happened. 

"I'm here." And the way Jaskier latched onto those words, relaxed at them, as though he was being held by a friend and not a monster--

"Geralt?" He shifted, weak. "Wha'happened?" 

"I was going to ask you." 

"M'not…not sure?" Geralt helped him stand, steadying him when he wavered with a gentle hand. "Was. Am. Dizzy. I think…" 

"Hm." He tipped water into him, hauled him up into Roach's saddled and righted him when he swooned. They needed someone with more medical expertise. Someone who knew what it was to be human and that meant villages. Towns, and regardless of the delay it would cause, he aimed Roach in the direction of the closest. They came across a healer, a young man new to the profession and Geralt almost balked, wondering if it would be safer to take Jaskier to someone with more experience. But the bard was slipping in and out, confused and trembling, and he decided to put his faith here rather than hope for better and lose him for want of a nail. 

Not frightened by the sight of him, the boy gestured for Geralt to set him down on a mattress recently stuffed with soft, sweet smelling hay, gently detangling his long fingers when they twisted up in his sleeve. Jaskier mumbled, unintelligible, searching for him with unfocused eyes. 

"... Please? Please?" Begging miserably in supplication, big tears rolled down his cheeks, and Geralt brushed back his hair, cupped his face and thumbed away the wet. 

"I'm. I'm not leaving, Jaskier. We've come here to make you well." Unfamiliar fear was like a hand around his throat and the physician wasted no more time, examining him swiftly and with care while Geralt hushed him, trying to keep him calm until exhaustion won out. The healer sat back and eyed the Witcher when he was done. 

"Well?" Geralt growled. He would not have his bard's diagnosis kept from him. 

"Well." He looked exasperated with the pair of him. "He's been starved." Of all the things racing through Geralt’s mind _starvation_ was not even close to being among them. 

“How?” The healer rinsed and dried his hands. 

“I’m not the one who’s been traveling with him, so I wouldn’t know. Could be a wasting disease but I don’t see any indication of that.” He tucked a heavy blanket over the sleeping bard, assuming correctly they would be staying at least the night. “Tell me about his habits.” Geralt wasn’t quite sure what that meant. 

“We spend our days on the Path. Nights, we rest.” The boy was not impressed, motioned with a pair of fingers to continue. “Hm. Meals are taken after breaking camp and setting it.” 

“Midday?” 

“As we move.” And the more Geralt thought of it, of the dried provisions, lean jerky, hard bread, unless they were at an inn, combined with traveling hard and on foot and the healer gave him a moment to draw his conclusions before giving them voice.

“He needs to eat more if you’re going to be pushing him that hard.” 

“ _I’m_ not the one pushing him.” Geralt didn’t like the way the kid shrugged. 

“Nngh…” Jaskier turned his head away, difficult in everything he did, and Geralt held his temper in check. Just this once. At least until the next time he had to wrestle with the delirious musician. 

“Be still now.” It was strange to hold a bowl to the mouth of someone who wasn’t a brother. He wouldn’t be able to tell you if he’d ever done it before this but the bard, impossible as it seemed, was intent on sticking by his side and Geralt found himself unable to leave him behind. He stroked sword-calloused fingers through Jaskier’s hair, allowing him a moment to catch his breath before urging him to take another swallow. With him cradled against his chest and without the layers of stiff silk brocade, Geralt could feel Jaskier’s ribs like rungs in a ladder, the hard press of his shoulder blades digging into him. It had happened so gradually the Witcher hadn’t noticed but pointed out to him so plainly he recognized that what he assumed was maturity was really the shedding of too much weight. 

They shared the one bed in the room Geralt rented. It was no different than many of the other times they’d splurged on the luxury only this time it was because he couldn’t stand to hear the chattering of his teeth and he held him close, sharing the extra warmth, burying his nose in Jaskier’s pulsepoint. Cursing how he’d allowed this fool to get so close. 

“Geralt?” Not much more than an exhale. He was curled up and pressed tight and without his Witcher’s hearing he certainly would have missed it. 

“Jaskier?” Carefully, he pulled him away, not missing the tremor wracking him through, but there was color in his face again and his eyes were bright and alert, having lost the terrifying emptiness only to fill with sorrow. 

“I’m _so_ sorry, Geralt.” And to hear his bard apologize tugged at something behind his heart. He pushed himself up, unsteady, like the change in position was threatening to steal away his consciousness again, but he rallied. “You didn’t have to stay.” Jaskier stared at his hands, worried at his fingers in his lap. “I’ve. I’ll replace the coin of course. What? What was it?” 

“You don’t know?” He looked up, confused. 

“No?” 

“You’re starving.” This time, he laid a hand over his stomach, fingers digging into his chemise. 

“Endlessly. But in my experience, that’s normal on the road.” It’s true, Jaskier was a traveling minstrel prior to their acquaintance. “I’m used to it.” He laughed, self deprecating. “Which is probably why I didn’t realize.” 

“We’ll talk about it later.” For now, he needed feeding up to get back on his feet and Geralt shook him awake when he returned with a bowl of pottage and a chunk of dark, crusty bread. 

“Breakfast in bed?” Though it was late morning, the bard was delighted and it was reassuring to roll his eyes again at the horrible jokes and the exaggerated expressions of delight flickering over his face as he sopped up the remaining stew with the last bite of bread.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, this one started off strong and then maaaaaaaan.
> 
> I need more fluff. Next one will definitely have more fluff!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I LIVE!
> 
> Sorry peeps, things have been rough as I'm sure you can imagine! But I offer up a few words!

“Jaskier!” 

“What?” Geralt was exasperated, but what else was new? Jaskier had spent the last fortnight lagging behind him and not for the first time, he cursed the bard for galavanting drunk in the evenings and flirting with men and women alike in lieu of sleeping. 

“You’re falling behind.” Without waiting for his excuses, he directed Roach to walk on. Maybe it would be better to camp in the forest and force the fool into a good night’s rest so they could make better time in the morning. Whatever grumbling Jaskier was doing behind his back even his Witcher’s ears couldn’t pick up on it and he let it be, choosing a clearing large enough for the three of them.

“Should we not push on to the village?” Geralt raised a brow in question. 

“Why? So you can wile away _my_ hours in the arms of a stranger?” He set about making their fire, refusing to look at the damage he knew his words had wrought; the whiff of sour disappointment was enough. 

“What do you know of how I spend my time?” Geralt tapped the side of his nose. 

“Enough.” Huffy and pouting, Jaskier didn’t deign to meet his eyes over the fire for the rest of the evening, instead turning in early on the cold ground with naught but his bed roll. It only served to keep them both awake and even when Geralt tugged him close, the chattering of his teeth didn’t cease. When morning came he barely kept his feet after yanked up, grabbing hold of the witcher’s arm for balance until the apparent dizzy spell had passed. 

“Sorry. Don’t know…” His breath hitched when Geralt checked for fever and found none. 

“You just need to warm up.” 

Jaskier didn’t argue with Geralt’s assessment, just followed doggedly after packing his kit messily and tying it to the saddle. His fingers were sluggish and sore, likely from long nights spent separating patrons from their coin with charm and song. Jaskier knew the village Aldermans were always stingy old bastards who refused to give Geralt the advertised price after he solved their every problem and he wanted to pull his weight, supplement their income with his talents when he could. Prove that he wasn’t just a useless tagalong wasting resources and time.

But he was tired. Exhausted really and he’d been looking forward to catching up on his rest at their next stop, not shivering miserably through the damp. Sleep was hard to come by aching as he was from keeping up with Geralt’s pace and stamina. Witchers didn’t tend to sleep very long and camp tended to be set up late only to be broken early. 

_You begged for this._

So he was keeping up, despite the weariness weighing down his limbs, settling heavy in the heart of him. What hurt more were Geralt’s accusations. That Jaskier cared only for frivolities and drink when truly he was working his fingers to the bone playing late into the evenings when they weren’t sleeping rough to be able to tip his earnings into Geralt’s pouch to cover his half of the provisions. It stung to know Geralt thought he only wasted his time. He may smell of lady’s perfume but only because flirting drew more of their fair attentions which in turn increased profit. 

He was too tired for anything else. 

Drained. 

Fatigued in that bone deep way that made your whole self shake. In the way that felt like you couldn’t get enough breath in your lungs no matter how deep you inhaled. Made your body ache and the room spin with the lack. 

Jaskier was trembling and cold, feet twisting up beneath him on the path in an attempt to trip him up. He stopped, held a hand over his burning eyes only to come to staring up at the sky. He must’ve collapsed but he couldn’t remember through the pain in his head and he touched away the sweat gathering on his face. Above him, the canopy swirled, sickening, and he pressed the back of one quaking hand against his mouth as his stomach lurched painfully. Roach’s steps were long gone and Jaskier wondered if he’d finally been left behind. The very _idea_ of trying to get up brought tears to the surface where they streamed down his cheeks and into the soft hair at his temples. If he could just get some sleep, just a bit.

You won’t get it lying in the road. 

Getting himself under control, Jaskier forced himself up and staggered directly into Geralt. 

“Sh’put a bell on you…” murmured low and slurred, syllables tripping up on his tongue. 

“Jaskier?” There was concern buried in the gruffness of his voice and the bard’s breath lodged in his throat. He was so _tired_. “Tired?” He must have spoken out loud; rude of his mouth to do so without express permission. His vision blurred and he lost his remaining balance, tipping most all of his weight into Geralt, bracing his uncoordinated body against that wall of muscle. “What’s wrong? You’re trembling.” Brusque, and again, a broad palm ghosted against his skin, searching in vain for an answer that made sense. 

“ _Tired._ Insistent, trying to make it make sense, the rest of his words caught up and caged somewhere else. He was slipping down Geralt’s chest, reeling, heaving for air, and before he could hit the dirt again he was lifted, pressed so close he got lost in a heavy heart beat. 

Warmth enveloped him and a heavy arm slung over his chest prevented him from moving, keeping him pinned and calm. Jaskier didn’t remember how he got here in this room with its ceiling of naked beams dancing with shadow cast by a low burning fire or being stripped of his brocade doublet and matching trousers. When he strained to get a better look he was rewarded with a low growl from the witcher cozied up next to him. 

“Go back to sleep, Jaskier.” 

Later, bathed and dressed and fed, they were on the road and it was lovely to have the spring back in his step as he skipped along beside Roach, annoying Geralt with limerick and rhyme and taking great advantage of his lenience. 

“Next time, tell me, Jaskier. So I don’t need to scrape you off the ground.” 

“Tell you what?” 

“Hm.” The bard could hear the frustration in that simple hum. “That you need rest. Or coin. I figured out what you were really doing when I paid for the room.” He stopped. “And saw your hands.” 

“Ah.” Jaskier let his steps carry him forward until Geralt could no longer see his face and let the sorrow of being misjudged well in his voice. “You said you _knew_ so I left it at that.” 

“I didn’t know _all_.” A large hand lighted on his shoulder like a butterfly and lifted away as quickly. “It was wrong of me to assume.”

“And?” He allowed himself to grin, cocky and delighted to be so useful and recognized for it at last. 

“And. For pulling your weight.” Jaskier glowed, retrieving his lute from its case and strumming a joyful chord.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I sometimes forget how young Jaskier is when they first meet, you know? Like, he babey. And Geralt is used to either being alone, or being with his bros who already know him and his mannerisms. 
> 
> Who else is stoked for Season 2? :D

**Author's Note:**

> More kindness, affection, and comfort to come :)


End file.
